@nocityfolk asked:
"what are you reading ?"
The brewery patio is quaint, a small corner tucked into the shade of an ancient live oak. The smell of hops and woodsmoke lingers in the humid New Orleans air, mingling with the faint notes of Zydeco music wafting from inside. A few picnic tables are scattered across the stone-paved yard, half-filled with locals and tourists nursing their beers and plates of crawfish. Francis had been on tour for some time and oftentimes, they couldn't help but find a local spot and people-watch or in this case read.
Francis sits at a far table, shoulders slightly hunched, a tall glass of amber beer in one hand and a black composition notebook in the other. The notebook is worn, the edges curling and the cover softened by time. Inside, the pages are a chaotic scrawl—maddening statements, fragmented thoughts, and intricate sketches of occult symbols that seem to almost move in the warm evening light. It used to belong to Alexandre, their brother. The realization still feels jagged, the weight of its significance pressing against their ribs every time they thumb through it.
Their eyes flicker across a particularly dense passage, their lips moving slightly as they read. They don’t notice the figure approaching until a voice breaks the spell.
Francis looks up, softly startled. A man stands a few feet away with an easy smile on his face. He’s dressed casually—jeans and a white t-shirt—but there’s an effortless charisma about him. It takes Francis a moment to place him, but then it clicks. Jesse. Jensen Arrow Knox Miller. The country singer whose face had been plastered across billboards and album covers for the past few months. Francis had a good thing about faces.
Francis blinks, feeling a faint buzz of surprise. “Oh. —just some old notes…,” They say softly, their voice betraying an old spanish accent as they close the notebook, resting it on the table. “Nothing too interesting.”
